He speaks first; sharing what he was told. The sketchy information increases the tension.
His game face is traditionally grim. Seriousness oozes from him as he contemplates the moves he must make. His body is still in the dim light, hands clasped in front of elbow that are propped on knees. He sits staring at the floor.
Her mental preparation is the complete reverse. She busies herself, checking and rechecking her gear, arranging it just so. She knows that chaos can be partially controlled by being organized. With everything in its place it reduces the chance of fumbling when it matters.
He lifts his head as she settles back into her seat. He speaks with purpose recognizing what they both hope is the worst possible scenario. It breaks the ice and in short concrete sentences they devise a strategy.
The pilot initiates the landing sequence. They descend from the late summer night sky after locating the prearranged rendezvous point. Stillness greets them after an uneventful landing. Their patient as yet to arrive.
In silence they unconsciously check the equipment one last time, all the while mentally dissecting other possible scenarios and their solutions.
As they scan the distance for the inevitable red lights, the pilot swings the stretcher into position. All that is left is to wait.
She sees it first and reflexively reaches for her part of the equipment. He instinctively does the same.
They move towards their objective. If it was only as simple as scoring a goal.
Their game is one of life, teetering on the very fine edge of death.
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